At the end of the day, my twelve steps did nothing except leave me empty and surrounded by more shit than I can handle. God, they’re basically the diet pills of romance. And what does that make me? Even after I put everything into trying to prove that troll wrong, it’s like all I really did was prove them right.

I wipe my eyes, tears coating my fingers. I hadn’t even realized I needed to cry until the tears start coming, and before I know it, I’m sitting in the grass, tears pouring down my face in an uncontrollable stream.

I head back to the hall a half hour later once I’m out of tears. Devin looks up at me like e’s concerned but e doesn’t say anything, and I’m grateful for that, the way e always seems to magically know what I need.

We clean everything up, and finally get out a little after three. I slip into the passenger seat of Devin’s car, voice low as I say, “Do you mind taking me to Drew’s later?”

“Sure, I don’t mind.”

“He wants me to meet him at six.”

“Oh.”

And I hate knowing that Devin’s probably hurt that I’m bailing early, but e’s not going to say anything about it because e thinks it’s eir fault instead of mine. And I hate that we get less than three hours together even though I’d rather be spending the rest of the day with em instead of pretending to love whatever super-not-me date Drew has planned for us.

“I’m glad you invited me,” I say, half hoping e’ll hear the undertone of what I’m trying to say. I’m really glad I get to go to your party, even if it’s only for a little while.

Devin smiles at me. “My dad always makes homemade croquetas for these things. You’ll love them.”

I smile back.

Devin’s house is the epitome of white suburbia. I mean, they literally have a picket fence even though it’s gray instead of white. There’s a line of cars outside the house, and a line of smoke trailing up from the backyard. A small gap in the driveway sits waiting for Devin’s car, and e slides into it expertly before turning off the engine.

“My parents are gonna be so happy to meet you,” e says.

I raise an eyebrow. “Do you talk about me?”

E blushes. “I—well, sometimes I—they really like meeting my friends.”

I step out of the car and look at the little white house with the little wooden porch, and the little colorful garden snaking around it. It’s almost comical how quaint it is.